Burned Hands and Forgotten Good Times

I wring my hands,

when I can't find yours,

buried in blankets of

insecurities.

You have hoarded 

your bitterness 

in messy piles,

leaving no path

free of

expired tv dinners

and misunderstandings. 

I peeked past those

garbage bag expectations.

There was no way

of cleaning it. 

I wring my hands.

Thought it might ignite

a flame,

like twigs and matches.

Burn your haunted house

down 

to the ground. 

I dash forward for eternity,

trying desperately to 

put out 

my smoldering bonfire,

in your flammable mountains. 

Wring my hands raw.

Each time I press my heel

into the flame,

you have started

another burning reason

why I'm no 

firefighter.

I question your sincerity, 

rather than climb

in after

the crying baby,

on the top floor. 

I wring my hands.

The hurt you

lit in me, 

will linger longer

then the years old ash,

still lining my fingernails. 

You knew

damn well 

I can't put out a fire. 

You knew my

extinguisher

was back under my own

pile

of cluttered

good intentions.

I will lose

all use

of my fingers,

if I light your cigarette

once more.

Burned hands

and forgotten good times,

can't make us see 

through smoke.

 

                                                       Image from: http://www.picship.com/

Cryptozoology and Essays on Human Existence: Altamaha-ha!

Altamaha-ha! Giant water serpent. I know it's you, whipping your tail against the bottom of my boat. Break the river and meet me and the catfish at "The Little Amazon."

Sshh! I'm trying not to think out loud.

Don't we all
deserve
our quiet,
secret place,
of solitude.
Give us one square
of Om.
Give me an inch,
of rewarding,
isolation.
I wanted nirvana.
All I got was an
earache.
From listening,
 for a
very quiet place.
Deaf sounds better,
then the nail on the chalkboard
responsibilities,
flecking caulk
on my creative outlets. 
How many crossed legged
nights,
pushing prayer beads
forward through
expecting fingers?
How much endured static,
like crackling stereos
out of cars at red lights?
How come good deeds,
don't make paths to
sought out privacy?
How long
till I know
the sound
my silence makes?
I just want a patch
of quiet inspiration.
like
everyone else.

 
                         Image from:http://outoftownblog.com/top-five-luxury-resorts-in-the-philippines/

Cryptozoology and Essays on Human Existence: Almas

Almas! Oh lets be wild people. Play truth or dare through the mountains. Truth. Are your footprints myth? Dare. Be the Neanderthal, yeti,  feral man, I know you can be.










Image from: http://www.americanmonsters.com/site/

Numb

Lose change,
we grasped for it.
Sounded like our teeth,
chattering desperately for
loads of laundry.
Money.
Money makes me numb.
Romance,
we shudder loud
at the sounds of
"your the one."
Love.
Love has made me numb.
Rescue squads,
spread out at trace evidence,
for my confidence.
Insecurities.
Insecurities make me want numb.
When did numb become
the feeling on everyone's
chapped lips.
When did I start fighting
for nothingness.
Numb.
Numb because I  worked for it.

Cryptozoology and Essays on Human Existence: Akkorokamui

Akkorokamui! I search the endless seas for your massive red limbs. Your name, unpronounceable, constricts my preconception of language and oceanography. Sink my weary ship. Tangle me in tentacles and salt water.










http://cryptozoologythescienceoftheunknown.com/

Cryptozoology and Essays on Human Existence: Ahool

Ahool! Your wings echo through the caverns of my heart. Cry out and find me in some humid, rainforest, sonar. Sounds like, ahOOOooool, every time I close my eyes








http://seekyt.com/some-of-the-most-legendary-and-mysterious-creatures-on-earth/

No prenup needed in the soil

  

penguinsinprada.tumblr.com

I want to marry a tree.
Seal our vows
in sap and soil.
Make love
in tangled roots.
Ill be the loving gardener,
and tend your every
weed.
Shade me from
the world's blistering
technologies.
Shower my eyelashes
with falling leaves,
like loving pet names.
Bloom for me baby,
and fill my womb
with fruit seeds.
Place the bird's songs
around my finger
like a ring.
Promise to carry me
into the forest,
rather then a
honeymoon suite.
Out live me.
Out live me.
Out live me.
I want to be
your nature girl.

Sweet Tooth and Short Skirt

ateneocinema.blogspot.mx

Am I always the girl with the lollipop?
Dirt always sticks to me,
when I drop my candy on the floor.
Lolita. I know you well.
Lolita.
Always the girl with the lollipop.

Thats how it always starts.

 Ill play a game with you.

 Ill pass the peach

 from my chin to your chin

. Im sticky.

 Thats how it always ends.

 Lolita, ill pass the peach chin to chin.

 Lolita. 

My ribbons sprawled out like open legs.

Wearing Your dress in the sandstorm:

inspiredbylittlethings.tumblr.com

Wearing Your dress in the sandstorm:

Not one
for weather reports,
I wore my dress in the
haboob again.
Clutching at hems
and modesty,
I laugh in spite of myself.
The wind licks my thighs,
like a lover's tickling fingers.
The dirt catches in my lashes,
like the words get caught in
our throats.
Once again,
my skirt flies upwards
like doves released from cages.
Once again,
I let go of my wide brimmed hat
and wave good bye,
as it carries my ego with it.
Once again,
my ass and last clean pair of underwear
are our inside joke.
When wearing your dress
in the sandstorm,
bring a spare set of humor
to change into.

Mantras

Mantra with me now.
The world is too beautiful
for an existence of
fair weather fucks and
self doubt.
Repeat it with me.
# The world's empathy sounds like chirping birds.
# Remember the dirt, how small each speck is and how far it has traveled. I am humbled when I see how small I am compared to flecks of sand.
#Im tough as nails.

Too Many Senses to Make Any Sense

 Image: http://whoaitskatie.tumblr.com/

Do you still see me?
I was fogging up the windows
of your back seat.
I was trying to write you a message,
only you could read
in condensation and
soul.
I forgot how to spell,
your glasses cracked
at each fading vowel.
Lost in translation
and lost in my efforts.
Do you still hear me?
I was talking through
all your favorite songs
on your day off.
I didnt want to keep you
from them.
Just knew you loved them
more then you were
capable
of loving me.
One wrong note
and our bodies go
out of tune.
I still feel you.
Every time a white 4-door
drives down the street.
Every time
I order the drink you
thought was my favorite one.
Every time
success runs out of my reach.
How many years
will it take
before all my senses
blissfully fail me?